


Psmith, Sailor

by aurilly



Category: Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: M/M, Sailing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-22 14:46:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9612119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/pseuds/aurilly
Summary: Mike and Psmith are stranded during the bank's annual yachting trip.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pocketbookangel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketbookangel/gifts).



Once a year, during one of the many holidays afforded it, the London management of the New Asiatic Bank put on a yachting weekend. This boon was designed to distract the employees for a brief spell from the sunless reality of their indentured servitude. 

Such was the opinion of Mike, who had been dragged away from the offer to serve as a substitute for one of Bob’s small club teams. In truth, the weekend had been designed and continued over the years in order to inject a sense of camaraderie amongst the staff, and to allow junior members of different departments to mingle, since opportunities were few during the busy and restrictive work hours.

“This is no small occasion, Comrade Jackson,” Psmith said as he readied himself in the mirror, and pinched the crease of his white flannels. “It is not for nothing that you are called from your true passion. I smell promise in the salty air. The sea calls. The gulls squawk. All the harbor is a twitter with the news that Psmith sets sail.”

“What are you so excited about?” Mike grumbled.

“My hopes for our day at sea are very high. They ride upon the crest, leaping like small, very odd, fish.”

“I don’t see why,” Mike grumbled. “We’re only going out a bit into the harbour. Do you even know how to sail? I don’t.”

“I am as proficient a seaman as was Odysseus of lore,” Psmith said on his way out the door.

Mike had ragged most of the way through Greek, but he’d learned enough to feel even lower than he had before.

* * *

Having only been in the City for a month, Mike had never seen his coworkers outside of the bank’s prison-like walls. It was strange today, to see those faces familiar to him from the neck up, but wholly transformed from the neck down. Far from dour bank duds, today everyone, like himself and Psmith, wore natty sailing togs. There was a smile on almost every face—another transformative effect. Some of the older fellows were even more pleased; this was the highlight of their year. 

“I doubt anyone has told you,” Mr. Rossiter said, “but it’s a bit of a race every year. They split everyone into groups of four, but we've run out of men, you see. Two will have to go it alone.”

“Comrade Jackson and I will be happy to brave the waters on our own,” Psmith said firmly. “Together, we muster the strength of four.”

“Capital, capital. I was telling my wife only yesterday what luck it was that two boyhood friends such as yourselves managed to strike it out together in the world of commerce. You will go great places together, I can see it.”

“I say the same thing twice every morning,” Psmith replied, beaming. “Comrade Jackson is the jewel of the empire, and I am the mere casing honoured to hold his weight and show off his splendour.”

Mike, for his part, felt seasick just looking at the boat.

* * *

For all of Psmith’s assertions about his sailing skills, they found themselves adrift and alone within an hour. The wind had died down, and the other boats, manned by skilled sailors, had left them far behind.

“I knew we should have gone with Bannister and the chaps from Wrykyn. But you said you knew how to sail. What was it you said? Something about being as good as Odysseus?” 

“Odysseus had a crew of men. He stood manfully about the stern, no doubt, but most likely did very little of the actual work. In terms of our current predicament, I confess that I may have overestimated my skills at the boom. And now, here we are, Comrade Jackson, adrift in this vast, lonely sea.”

“It’s not as bad as all that. I can still make out the land over there.”

Paying him no mind, Psmith continued, “I fear this is the end, my dear Comrade Jackson. We shall perish here, cast away into the waves. I wonder what will come for us first. Shall it be sharks? Or perhaps the desperation of thirst. I promise you, that even upon this raft of Medusa, I shall not eat you, not even when I am perishing of hunger.”

“They’ll come look for us soon enough,” Mike said. “At the very least, by the end of the day. They count the boats to make sure we’ve all come back. The owner most likely doesn’t want to lose one.”

“It is dire, near-death moments such as these, dearest chum of my boyhood, that the mood to speak strikes.”

“When has it ever _not_ struck you?”

“To hold forth on philosophy, yes, or to disclose my views on cuffed trousers. I have always spoken freely on such subjects. But that which is held close and secret in my heart—the deep longings and lonely disappointments… No, the urge to speak of that does not occur often, although I am thinking of it always. I reminisce on the things that were. Ah, youth. The gambols once enjoyed fade away as manhood approaches. So it must be, I know. How goes the maxim? Put childish things away? And yet…”

Mike was not one of those young men, such as one reads about in detective novels, who sees things in an instant. Rather, shapes slowly pieced themselves together in his normally-functioning, but wholly pedestrian mind. And right now, some metaphorical orbs were coming into contact with snugly curving crescents. Also unlike these insightful detectives, he preferred the old-fashioned question-and-answer method of confirming his suspicions, instead of baldly stating wild hypotheses that left the accused too stunned to respond.

“Smith,” he asked slowly, “is this about you and me? About what we used to get up to last year at Sedleigh?”

“‘Used to.’ Never has grammar hit home so decisively and annihilatingly as the brutally employed past tense. Is it the simple past or the past continuous, I wonder? Does it matter?” Psmith sighed, and looked off into the middle distance.

“I’ve no idea,” Mike answered. “I always ragged in grammar. But look here. This is all rot. You’ve had plenty of opportunity to… I mean to say…” Mike felt himself going hot in the face. “You haven’t said anything about it in months. I thought you’d grown out of it.”

“You say it as though you were no more to me than an old shirt. What did you think I meant when I named you my ‘confidential secretary and advisor’ and asked you to share my flat?”

“It seemed pretty literal. Well, as literal as you ever get.”

“Oh, Comrade, Jackson, how—”

From the look on his face, it was clear that Psmith was about to launch into one of his longer passages. Normally, Mike would have listened to whatever extended similes were in store, but he’d missed tea due to this misadventure. It was clear to him now what he needed to do to resolve this misunderstanding, so, to speed up this process and get back to shore, he took decisive action. He quickly looked around to make sure they were still the only people in sight. Once he was certain of their solitude, he leaned forward and kissed Psmith flush on his still-speaking lips. It was an awkward kiss, all chapped lips and noses, but it was enough to convey the message. 

“Is that what you were after?” Mike asked, rather breathlessly, a few minutes later.

“It is. And look at that. The strength of your passion has reminded me how to sail.”

And with that sorted, they were on their way back to dry land and a very nice tea.


End file.
